A Question of Taste
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Mark has a dinner date, Milt settles in with a movie. or something. thank you for hounding me to post it - you know who you are.


An hour before dinnertime on a Saturday evening, Hardcastle strolled into the main house kitchen to find Mark clattering about with exotic  
ingredients strewn over every available surface. The frying pan sizzled, emitting interesting aromas, and a half-empty bottle of white wine stood on the kitchen table.

"Whatcha makin', kid?"

"Saltimbocca alla Romana." The would-be gourmet cook never looked up from the frying pan.

"What's her name?"

"Susan," McCormick answered reflexively before raising his head indignantly. "Hey! Can't I make a decent meal around here without you  
assuming I'm meeting someone?"

"No," Hardcastle said shortly. "What was it the last time? That girl with the big—"

"Judge, do _not_ start in on my taste in women."

"I never comment on the airheads you date."

"You're doing it again!" Mark wailed.

"Doing what?"

Mark turned to face the Judge. "Don't give me that innocent routine, Hardcase! You always find something to say about the women I…"

"Something's burning."

"Oh, no!" McCormick whirled to snatch the frying pan off the stove, rescuing whatever he was cooking from the pan. He gave an overly  
aggrieved sigh. "Hardcastle, do you have something to do in here, besides drive me crazy?"

"It's my kitchen, or do I need permission to use it now?"

McCormick gritted his teeth. Hardcastle grinned. It was such fun to get the kid's goat. "You're gonna clean up when you're done, I hope."

"A lot better than you ever did, Hardcastle. I don't know how you'd survive if you didn't have me to pick up after ya."

********

Hardcastle looked out the window as an older-model white coupe he mentally classed as 'nice' drove in and parked in the driveway. He was pleasantly surprised to see a tall, attractive brunette in black slacks and a conservative blouse step out of the driver's seat. How about that? He thought, pleased. Of course the woman still had what Hardcastle called the "topographical" appeal Mark seemed to consider essential, but she was a far cry from last date's peroxide blonde, who'd sported a phosphorescent yellow mini-dress and heels high enough to be  
considered a building violation. _I swear that kid has a bimbo gene, _he mused._ Still, maybe he's getting over it. He needs to know what  
nice girls are really like_. He turned away from the window, feeling quite paternal all of a sudden. With a shrug, he shook off the feeling. Retrieving a cold beer from the kitchen, he settled in for a night in front of the TV.

There was quite an interesting movie just starting – not John Wayne, but an older film, the name of which he couldn't quite place. It  
had Tony Curtis as an escaped convict handcuffed to another escaping prisoner. He'd seen it several years ago, and it seemed like just the  
ticket to a pleasant evening of relaxation.

The two escapees had just climbed out of a hole and were starting to make their way across a God-forsaken heath when Hardcastle's stomach  
growled. He quirked a wry smile: he'd been so busy needling McCormick that he'd grabbed a handful of popcorn and forgotten to eat. He began to weigh the options in his mind: during the next commercial break, he could jump up to the kitchen and get the rest of the popcorn, or  
else make a sandwich and take a chance on missing a few scenes of the film. Or perhaps he could….

He jumped as the door to the den opened, and looked around, surprised, as McCormick pushed the door inwards with his shoulder, carrying various plates, bowls, etc., all looking as though they were about to topple crashing to the floor at any minute. Hardcastle followed the precarious balancing act as far as the coffee-table, where McCormick struggled to put down his burdens. "Give me a hand, willya?" the younger man mumbled, and Hardcastle jerked out of his `watching mode' to help unload the dishes. He was surprised; it couldn't have been more than half an hour since McCormick's date had arrived.

"What happened?" Hardcastle asked. "Don't tell me the old McCormick charm wore off already?"

He raised an eyebrow as McCormick, instead of snapping back a smart retort, looked away, rather abruptly. "I figured you might want a taste of my gourmet creation," the ex-con said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Couldn't leave you to your own cooking."

_Looks like they had a lovers' spat and he doesn't want to talk about it._ That actually suited Hardcastle okay – Heaven knew he never could  
find anything to say about troubles of the heart, anyway. "So you brought your idea of food over here," Hardcastle said non-committally. "Hope you remembered to bring the stomach pump."

"Very funny," McCormick said expressionlessly, bending over the serving dishes to fill the plates. Hardcastle shot him a look. This was odd behavior for Mark's usually sunny personality._ Musta been quite a spat_, he thought, then gave a mental shrug._ He'll get over it. Why does he have to make a three-act tragedy over every little time he has words with one of his girls?_

"What is this stuff?" Hardcastle asked as McCormick handed him a plate. He cautiously prodded the meat. "Looks like dried tree bark and.. white porcupines."

McCormick had the air of a man dutifully trying to enter into the spirit of the game. "These are veal scaloppini. It's time you had a little refinement in your diet."

"Back in my day they didn't sell refinement at the grocery store," Hardcastle mumbled, feigning grouchiness, "or scaloppini either. They just called it meat." He half-expected a comment on how grocery stores in his day only sold flint knives and bearskins, but when he found none forthcoming, he ploughed on. "I meant this," he prodded his fork at something attached to the meat. "Did that get here by accident, or is it some kind of bulletproof vest for the steak?"

"Scaloppini," Mark sighed pointedly. Hardcastle perked up at the deliberately aggrieved tone creeping into the kid's voice. "Scaloppini, not steak. And that just happens to be _prosciutto crudo."_

"Wanna translate that into English, hotshot?"

"Imported Italian air-dried ham," McCormick sat down with his own plate.

"What the heck's wrong with ordinary ham? Good ol' American not good enough for ya?" He couldn't resist. "And just how much'd this  
whatchamacallit cost?"

"$32.50 a pound."

"What!" Hardcastle stared, appalled, at his plate.

"It's called the fine art of seduction, Judge. That's different from the Call of the Wild."

"Fine art? For that price I could buy me a Picasso or something. What is it with you kids today? That's your trouble, you don't know the  
value of a dollar."

"I do," Mark sighed ostentatiously. "That's why I'm always asking you for a raise. You still seem to think eggs are a dime a dozen and…"

"All right already, McCormick. You just gave me one more reason not to give you a raise, if it means you're gonna blow it on overpriced ham for your `fine art'…" He saw a cloud pass over the kid's face, and figured now would be a good time to drop it, but couldn't resist grousing, "Nothing's `fine art' unless it costs more'n any sane person would ever pay. Fancy way to say `steak 'n' ham' if you ask me…" He prodded the offending object with a lot more respect now, but turned his attention to the other occupant of the plate. "You gonna tell me what I'm eating, here?"

"I already said, Saltimbocca…"

He exploded. "Don't start with that again, wiseguy! I mean this other thing here!"

"Sculptured artichokes. Imported from Thailand."

Hardcastle gave him a `you've got to be kidding' look. "See, this is just what's wrong with your generation. Nothing's any good unless it's imported. Italian cars, French wine, this fancy ham…"

He waited hopefully for McCormick to bite, but Mark seemed to have missed it, looking interestedly at the screen. "What is that movie,  
anyway? Haven't seen it."

"Aw, it's got these two escaped cons, one of `em's Tony Curtis and this other guy…"

"Sidney Poitier."

"Yeah. Anyway, they hate each other – Tony Curtis hates blacks and the other guy…"

"Sidney Poitier?"

"...yeah, hates whites. Only they're handcuffed together with this chain, and they gotta escape, see?" Hardcastle mumbled indistinctly around a mouthful of Saltimbocca alla Romana and sculptured artichoke. "So they gotta work together." Much as he hated to admit it, this stuff wasn't half bad. In fact, he'd never tasted anything so good. Not that he'd ever let on to the kid – he'd never hear the end of it… He made a mental note to check for the artichoke thingies next time he was at the deli counter. Maybe the kid would think they were leftovers from today, if he was careful to shove them all the way to the back of the refrigerator.

"Didn't know you went in for that kinda thing, Hardcase. Whatever happened to law and order?"

Hardcastle glanced at McCormick. The last words had been spoken with a ring of bitterness that had been absent from the ex-con's speech  
for a long time now. He fumbled for words. "It's a movie, McCormick." _Smooth, Hardcastle. Very smooth.  
_  
"Yeah." The kid slumped even lower in his chair, picking at his food.

Hardcastle felt a momentary flash of irritation. Darned spoilt kids. Pouting, sulking, didn't eat properly, careless with money, backtalking… His dad would have had him over his knee for a good whuppin' half a dozen times already in the previous conversation. "Your generation's got no stamina." It slipped out without his fully realizing it.

"Yeah, well, you don't need to worry about any future generations, anyway."

That was such an odd statement that Hardcastle looked hard at McCormick. What the heck did the kid mean?

Seemingly aware of Hardcastle's gaze, Mark practically jumped out of his chair. "Want some ketchup?" And he was halfway to the kitchen  
before Hardcastle could formulate a reply.

Hardcastle turned his attention resolutely to his dinner plate and the TV. For a moment he thought maybe he should find out what was  
eating McCormick, but his natural reluctance to broach emotional subjects won out, and he concentrated resolutely on his dinner and  
his movie. He had better things to do than figure out the moods of whiny, pampered kids.

* * *

The movie was nearing its end. Dinner had come and gone, and McCormick had obliged during the commercial breaks by getting popcorn  
and beer. He had been less than obliging, though, by sitting there like a statue for most of the film. One of the things Hardcastle liked about watching movies with the kid was that McCormick was a vocal critic: by now, he was used to hearing the kid's snide, sarcastic, or admiring comments on every scene. Not hearing them was putting a damper on what had originally promised to be a pleasant evening. For a moment Hardcastle felt a twinge of regret for feeling pleased that Mark's date had run out and left the kid to watch the movie with him; he was still sulking, and no fun at all.

He stole a glance at Mark. Despite his silence, he seemed to be finding the tale of the two escaped convicts fascinating; his eyes were riveted to the screen. The movie had got to the point where the two cons had reached the home of a farmer-type single mom, and after breaking the metal chain that bound them together, she was propositioning Tony Curtis. "Now what, Hardcase? Any hope of a steamy sex scene?"

Hardcastle harrumphed, pleased that Mark had finally said something. "That all you ever think about?"

McCormick gave a reasonable facsimile of his usual grin. "A guy can hope, can't he? I know this actress, Cara… Cara something, right?"

"Williams. Watch the movie, McCormick." And they did. The final plot twist was when Cara Williams decided to run away with Tony Curtis,  
and misled Sidney Poitier into a snake-infested swamp to throw the law enforcement posse off the trail. The movie ended with Curtis  
leaving her and running off to save Poitier, missing the train to freedom, and the duo waiting for the posse.

Since Hardcastle had seen it before, he divided his time between watching the movie and gauging the kid's reaction. It was odd: when Curtis and Williams decided to run off together, his face just went completely blank, and stayed that way for the rest of the movie. The credits rolled, the television cut to a commercial, and McCormick just sat there like a statue, staring through the screen.

This was definitely odd. "Mark?" he blurted.

The use of his Christian name got McCormick's attention. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothin's wrong!" Hardcastle snapped, embarrassed. "You… uh, wanna watch the news?"

"I'm not buyin' it, Judge," McCormick looked intently at him. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, when you call me `Mark', I get nervous. What's up?"

"That's what _I_ wanna know!" said Hardcastle. "You come in here early, you sit there like a zombie all through the movie, you…"

"You want me to leave?" McCormick's tone was challenging.

"Willya quit that! You're sounding like a spoilt kid!" Hardcastle barked.

"Sorry," Mark mumbled and sank into his chair, looking as though he wanted to leave but didn't have the energy to.

Hardcastle looked back at the TV. _Shouldn't have said that. Well, too late now. He'll get over it._ "How about a little one-on-one?" he found himself saying – an offer of truce.

Mark took his time before answering, and when he did, all he said was, "Maybe later, Judge."

Hardcastle was not the most patient man at the best of times, and he finally exploded. "For cryin' out loud, kid, what is the matter with you tonight?"

McCormick whipped round to face him, eyes flashing. "She won't marry a convicted felon, okay? Happy now?"

Hardcastle turned to face him, thunderstruck.

The moment the words were out, Mark looked as though he regretted them. "Sorry."

"No, I…" His mouth hung open, slackly. How much was there about this kid he didn't know? "You were… you asked her to…" He realized he was babbling.

"No, not really," Mark half-smiled, sounding embarrassed now. "Just… she's different, you know? And I thought about," he took a breath, "getting serious. Maybe later. And I wanted to tell her…"

Hardcastle wasn't sure whether to look at the kid or pretend to be watching the news.

"…tell her I'm on parole. And she said it's nothing personal, but…" He paused. "She said she had to," another deep breath, "protect  
herself."

_Protect_ _herself?!_ Hardcastle could actually feel his blood pressure rising. But he had no idea what to say. He made a non-committal grunt, which seemed to encourage McCormick to go on.

"She said she wouldn't go out with someone if there's no `future in the relationship'," the ex-con went on, forcing the words out. "Said next time she'd find one of those computer dating services that screened for married people and criminals and felons." His tone was laced with bitterness.

Hardcastle stared. _Aw, Mark. You're too good for her, you didn't deserve that._

He wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure what. Hunting down the girl and yelling at her wasn't an option right now, so he settled for  
another grunt, which, he hoped, sounded sympathetic.

With a quiet resignation that was more frightening than histrionics could ever be, Mark murmured, "Guess now you understand why I date  
the kinda girls I do, huh? No lies, no promises. Just a good time."

He really hated to talk about such things, but there was no help for it. "Kiddo… you trying to say that there isn't a decent woman who'd have ya?"

"I don't like it any more than you do, Hardcase, but facts is facts."

"Facts my left hind leg!" Hardcastle snapped. "Lots of nice girls aren't that…"

"That what, Judge? Prejudiced? They are, though. Can't say I blame `em. I could be a rapist, a murderer or something…" He sighed,  
attempting lightness. "It's not the first time I hear that kinda thing, Hardcase. Don't sweat it."

"So you're gonna spend the rest of your life dating bimbos `cause you're afraid a nice, decent woman wouldn't have ya?"

"Maybe it's all I'm cut out for. It's not so bad, really."

Hardcastle hated Mark's resigned, self-deprecating mode. "You've just been meeting the wrong girls, is all! Any woman with half a brain can  
see you got a lot more going for you than lots of people who never did time!"

McCormick turned to face him, with a surprised `did you just compliment me?' look. But apparently he decided that the Judge just wanted to make him feel better, because the surprise faded from his face, to be replaced with a look of quiet resignation. "Yeah, yeah. Sure I do."

"Yeah, you DO, McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled, becoming frustrated. "Just because some high and mighty dame says you're not good enough for her doesn't mean you—"

McCormick took a swig of beer and sank lower in his chair. "Can't say I blame her. If I had a sister, I'd think twice before marrying her off to an ex-con."

" 'Can't blame her?' That stinks, McCormick! If I had a daughter, I'd be _proud_ to marry her to you!" Hardcastle retorted.

McCormick sat absolutely still.

The Judge harrumphed, realizing what he'd said, but unable to back down now, he blustered on, figuring a good offense was the best  
defense. "Lots of guys lie and cheat; you don't. You're honest when it counts," his voice grew louder and louder as though he was delivering a tirade of insults, "you're a barrel of laughs, you care about people, you stick up for the underdog, you know how to treat a lady, and you'd be a  
HELLUVA DAD, TOO!" He was shouting now. "Any NICE GIRL with HALF A BRAIN couldn't wish for a BETTER HUSBAND! SO I DON'T WANNA HEAR ANYMORE OF THAT `can't blame her' HOOEY!" Wiping a hand across his nose, he harrumphed noisily and turned back towards the television.

Mark just stared. Slowly, a hesitant smile started to spread across his face, rising like the sun, gaining confidence every second. He took a deep breath, looked at the Judge, staring resolutely at the television, opened his mouth and seemed to bite back whatever he'd been going to say.

Hardcastle caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. "I'm SERIOUS, I MEAN it, every WORD, McCormick, so I don't wanna hear any of your LIP!" he bellowed.

Mark raised his eyebrows; Hardcastle deduced that he'd correctly guessed the unasked question. His heart filled with warmth at the  
reassured, contented glow that filled the kid's face, the way he relaxed, more naturally, into the chair.

After a pause, Mark spoke, gentle joy lighting his eyes. "And I make a mean Saltimbocca alla Romana, huh?"

The Judge took in the smile and matched it with one of his own, feeling an inner peace he hadn't felt for a while. "Now you're  
cookin'."


End file.
